HOGS #6 Death Wish (Jim DeFelice’s HOGS First Gulf War series) by Jim DeFelice Read Free Book Online Page A

and sniper expert with a (civilian) EMT badge and a
knack for blowing things up, Mandaro had particularly sharp vision and rated among
the best point men Hawkins had ever seen in combat.
    “Your guys?” Hawkins asked the British sergeant,
taking a stab at conversation only because Burns seemed to need to talk.
    “They’ve been in hot water before. Squaddys began
in Ireland. Tight after that.”
    Hawkins had not-so-distant relatives in Belfast,
children and grandchildren of the grandmother who had first turned him on to
tea. At least one belonged to the IRA Provos – the SAS’s enemy in Ireland. He
grunted noncommittally, turning his attention back to his cup.
    “Jundies won’t know what hit them when we go in,”
added Burns.
    “Jundies?”
    “Ragheads. The Iraqis.”
    “Oh yeah.”
    Burns reached into the pocket of his uniform and
took out the map of their target. They’d gone over the plan at least twenty
times before taking off, mapping contingencies and psyching out possible Iraqi
moves; there was no practical benefit to reviewing it now. But maps, even
roughly sketched ones, held almost supernatural power for some guys, and
apparently the British NCO was one of them. The trace of his finger across the
shallow berm near the road, the double-tap of his thumb against the blocks
representing buildings— these were part of a holy ritual that he undoubtedly
believed would guarantee success.
    Some men preferred to continually check their
weapons, making sure ammo belts weren’t kinked, triple-checking the taped
trigger spoons on the grenades, testing the sharpness of their battle knives.
    Hawkins liked to drink his tea.
    “We’ll have the carriage way right off,” said
Burns.
    He meant the road. Two Apaches would cut off
access to the base. Once the Hogs took the Zeus guns out, the plan would be
boom-boom, teams at each building, top and bottom. Three stories. Neither had
defenses, and it looked from the surveillance “snaps,” as the British put it,
that one was completely unoccupied.
    You never could tell.
    Hawkins leaned his head back against the wall of
the helicopter, trying to ignore the vibration as well as the sergeant without
success on either front.
    “Moons and Puff will move with your men to the
second house,” said Burns, repeating a sentence he’d repeated now at least
three times since they’d met. “I’ll be with you on the first.”
    Hawkins’ attention drifted. An RAF reconnaissance
Tornado would zoom over the small base roughly ten minutes before the Chinooks
were to land. It would check the defenses one last time. The A-10s would pound
anything that had materialized and then clear the assault teams and the
supporting Apaches in.
    Standard house-clearing tactics— flash-bang grenades,
A-Bombs, MP-5s, in and out.
    Though they came from different armies, the
troopers and the commandos were equipped roughly the same. The SAS men carried
American M-16 Armalites with grenade launchers, just as some of the D boys did;
they referred to the guns as 203s after the M203 designation for the launcher.
They also had two Minimis on their team. Three of Hawkins’ men carried silenced
MP5s, very light and nasty submachine-guns that the commandos were also
familiar with; two others had Mossberg A-Bombs. Between them, the commandos and
troopers carried a large number of grenades, the nastiest of which was arguably
the white phosphorous or “phos” to the SAS men; the ingredients could burn
through unprotected skin and eat a man’s body. Among their other tasty treats
were 66mm man-launched anti-armor rockets, modern-day disposable bazookas that
could take out most modern tanks.
    “Hit at last light,” said Burns.
    “Yeah,” said Hawkins, barely paying attention.
    “I’ve heard your A-10s are slower than bloody
helicopters,” said the sergeant. “Will they be of use?”
    “I wouldn’t worry about the Hogs,” Hawkins told
him.
    “You’ve worked with them before?”
    “Oh yeah,” said